Tiny House on the Hill

by Celia Bonaduce

  “You certainly know your geography,” Summer said lightly to the stonewalling manager. “It’s going to be a very long trip. And today was really tough. I’m still getting the hang of driving this thing.”

  “I’ll bet,” Trixie said, turning on her heels. “We’re closed.”

  Momentarily stunned, Summer watched as Trixie marched back toward the campground. Through the open car door, she heard Shortie give a let-me-out-of-here bark. Summer bleated after Trixie as she released Shortie’s seatbelt and put him on the ground.

  “Wait!” Summer called. “I have a reservation…”

  “At my discretion,” Trixie said.

  She didn’t turn around, but pointed to a sign which read

  WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE—AND THAT MEANS YOU.

  “But I have nowhere else to go,” Summer said.

  She saw Trixie shrug her shoulders. Summer’s plight seemed to have absolutely no effect on Trixie, but having said the words out loud, the reality of the situation hit Summer hard. She blinked back tears.

  All the online research she had done about tiny house living counseled dipping your toe into the lifestyle, not jumping in with both feet. Summer was so enamored of the idea of freedom that, her risk-management training be damned, she went against that advice. Now, here she was, with everything she owned in the world, at the mercy of a heartless RV park manager.

  “Well, hello, little fellow,” Trixie said when she spotted Shortie. “Aren’t you a cutie pie!”

  A heartless RV park manager who loved dogs!

  Summer calmed her features, if not her inner turmoil, and smiled brilliantly at Trixie, who was now down on one knee accepting kisses from Shortie.

  “His name is Shortie,” Summer said.

  “Good name,” Trixie said. “Can I pick him up?”

  “Sure,” Summer said. “He loves to be picked up.”

  She hoped Shortie wouldn’t squeal with outrage. He hated being picked up unless it was his idea. Shortie seemed to sense this was a special circumstance, because he barely paused in his kissing as he was airborne into Trixie’s arms. He was laying it on thick.

  “He likes you,” Summer said.

  “I got a way with dogs,” Trixie said.

  “I can see that.”

  Summer waited. When Shortie had done all he could do to rectify the situation, he started squirming. Trixie put him back on the ground. Summer held her breath.

  “Wal-Mart,” Trixie said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You can park this thing at Wal-Mart,” Trixie said. “They have plenty of space.”

  Chapter 9

  Summer located Wal-Mart and pulled in to the parking lot. It was getting late in the evening, so it was nearly empty. She sat facing the store’s neon sign and pondered her options.

  She decided she had none. She knew there would be a learning curve from the moment she signed the contract with Bale. The fact that absolutely everything that could possibly go wrong seemed to go wrong should not be coming as a surprise.

  And yet, somehow it was.

  Summer put her head on the steering wheel and let out a big fat gulping I’m-in-my-truck-and-nobody-can-hear-me-and-snot-is-filling-up-my-nose-so-I can’t-breathe sob. Shortie whimpered in the back seat. Summer pulled herself together for the sake of her dog.

  “Okay, Shortie,” she said. “I’m alright. Time to woman up.”

  She crept across the perimeter of the parking lot, not ready to tangle with the few cars parked closer to the store. It was almost dark, but the store still seemed to be doing business. She glanced up at the blue and yellow sign: 24-Hour Center. She wondered if she should park under a bright light or snuggle up into a corner. She decided to check out all four massive parking areas that ringed the store before making a decision. It was sort of like shopping for a parking space.

  She pulled Big Red and the caboose slowly around the corner and slammed on the brakes. She closed her eyes for a minute, afraid to believe what she was seeing. When she saw them, she let out a little whimper of surprise, and gratitude. In front of her was a small cluster of RVs parked discreetly—or as discreetly as you can park twelve giant RVs—around the edges of the parking lot. She inched toward them.

  She pulled into a space that required no particular finesse. Before she shut off the truck, she made sure she could pull out in the morning without ever putting the truck in reverse.

  This was heaven on asphalt. She was almost giddy with relief as she surveyed the triangle of parking lot loaded with new and old RVs.

  My people!

  An older man in jeans and a plaid shirt was checking the tires of the RV parked next to her as she shut off the truck. He waved to her as she let herself and Shortie out of Big Red. It felt good to stretch her legs. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been the last few hours.

  “Howdy, neighbor,” the man said. “That’s some rig! First one I’ve seen up close!”

  Summer beamed at him. She’d been so caught up in all the misadventures that she forgot that she was towing a very unusual trailer.

  “Thanks. My name’s Summer and this is Shortie.”

  “My name’s Alf,” he said, shaking Summer’s hand and bending down to pet Shortie, who, as always, acted as if he were starved for affection. “So how do like living in a tiny house?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Summer said, sneaking a peek at her home. “I just bought it.”

  “Welcome to life on the road,” Alf said.

  “Thank you,” Summer said.

  “That’s a sweet little crummy you got there,” Alf said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Back in the day, they used to call a caboose a crummy,” Alf said. “So, this is your first night as a blacktop boondocker, huh?”

  Summer blinked at Alf. Was there an entire language she had to learn along with everything else she didn’t know?

  “I’m not sure what that is,” Summer said. “But it’s probably a safe bet to say that since this is my first night on the road, it’s my first night as a …shortstop bootlegger.”

  “Blacktop boondocker,” Alf said, squinting at her. “It means dry camping. You do know what dry camping is, don’t you?”

  Summer stared down at Shortie.

  “It means you can’t run your gennie,” Alf added.

  For the second time in less than an hour, Summer burst into tears. She buried her head in her hands.

  “What did you say?” came a smoky female voice.

  Summer looked up sharply, relieved to see that the comment was not directed at her, but at Alf.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Alf said, visibly upset at having reduced Summer to tears. “I was just showing this little lady the ropes!”

  “I’ll take it from here,” the woman said, letting a relieved Alf off the hook. She introduced herself as “Margie…not Marge, Margie.”

  “I’m sorry,” Summer sniffed. “I’m just new to all this and I honestly couldn’t understand a thing Alf said to me!”

  “Oh, was he using that Depression Era–hobo lingo on you?” Margie said, shaking her head affectionately as Alf joined a few other men in the parking lot.

  “Is that what it was?” Summer asked. “I mean, I wasn’t around then…”

  “Honey, he wasn’t around then!” Margie said. “But when he retired from forty years in the insurance game, he’s coming as close to living his dream as a 1930’s train-hopping hobo as I’ll let him. You know, the whole open-road thing, not knowing where you’re going to land. Wal-Mart parking lots are about as good as it gets these days.”

  Summer thought this sounded like her original dream until Queenie called.

  I don’t have to stay in Washington. I can just stop in and calm Queenie down. How bad can things be with the Great Keefe in charge?

&
nbsp; Thoughts of heading to Washington always led to thoughts of Keefe, so she put her destination out of her mind.

  “I was in the insurance game, myself,” Summer said, trying to match Margie’s tone. “But I was only in it four years.”

  Margie looked at her, a slight tilt to her head, as if she were studying her.

  “You quit after four years?” Margie said, looking at the tiny house and then back at Summer.

  Summer braced herself for whatever Margie was going to say next. Maybe she could practice what she’d say to Queenie when Queenie got wind of her idea.

  “You are a very brave young lady,” Margie said.

  Summer smiled. She sincerely doubted this was going to be Queenie’s reaction.

  “Thanks,” Summer said, feeling lighter than she had all day.

  She liked this version of herself. Brave, instead of insane. Getting back to business, she added, “But what exactly is dry camping?”

  “Basically, it means you aren’t using your generator,” Margie said,

  She explained that in many Wal-Mart parking lots, but not all, you were welcome to park overnight but not run your generator.

  “Especially when the store is in a neighborhood,” Margie said. “Keeps the noise down.”

  Margie cheerfully led Summer through the etiquette of dry camping at Wal-Mart.

  “First, you find the store manager and ask if you can stay,” Margie said, leading Summer by the elbow to the store.

  Shortie, in his counterfeit therapy dog jacket, trotted at their heels.

  “What if the manager says no?” Summer asked.

  “Why would she say no?” Margie replied. “You got your purse?”

  Noting that Summer had it, she continued:

  “Because you also should buy a little something. Just to show your support. Have you had supper? They have amazing hot dogs here. You’re not one of those vegans are you?”

  Summer shook her head.

  “And they have a great variety of dog treats!” Margie said.

  “Oh no!” Summer said, stopping dead in her tracks. She hadn’t planned on setting up her tiny house until she got to Queenie’s, but she realized, without turning on the power, she’d wouldn’t even be able to blow up her air mattress or turn on the lights.

  Margie was sanguine when Summer explained her situation.

  “This is Wal-Mart,” Margie said proudly, as if she were an official Wal-Mart greeter. “We can get you a hand pump. And a flashlight, since you won’t have any light.”

  “What about hooking up the plumbing?” Summer asked.

  “Negative, Captain,” Margie shook her head.

  So I’m camping with a Depression Era–hobo and a Star Trek First Officer.

  “This isn’t a place to get comfortable,” Margie said. “No cooking, no peeing, no showering.”

  “No showering?” Summer said with a hint of alarm. Clearly she could find places to eat and pee. But it was a long way to Washington with no shower.

  “There are truck stops along all the major highways. You can get a shower there.”

  “How will I find them?”

  “Oh,” Margie said. “There’s an app for that.”

  Finally, someone was speaking her language.

  The manager was happy to let Summer and Shortie spend the night. True to Margie’s word, Summer was able to purchase a hand-pump for the air mattress, treats for Shortie, two hot dogs for herself and a camping lantern. By the time she was lugging her shopping bags back to the caboose, she felt she’d taken a mighty step toward blacktop boondocking.

  “You’re the first tiny house I’ve seen in person,” Margie said.

  Summer nodded. The tiny house movement was sweeping the nation’s imagination, if not its highways. She saw more television shows about tinies than she did actual homes. As she crossed the country, her house was the sensation of parking lots and truck stops. It seemed all her temporary neighbors were waiting to ask her questions.

  If someone asked, “How can you live in something that small?” Summer would reply that it took discipline, but getting rid of anything extraneous was liberating. She didn’t actually feel that way. She missed her belongings. But her online research all but guaranteed she’d feel that way soon.

  There was also the question: “Why a tiny house instead of an RV?” usually asked by someone leaning up against their RV. At first, Summer took this to be hostility, but the RV crowd marched to its own drum. The inquiry usually came from a place of curiosity rather than condemnation.

  “I like the idea of an RV,” Summer would always say, as an homage to their mode of transportation and lifestyle. “But I just fell in love with the idea of taking a real home with me everywhere I went.”

  Summer was surprised to find how many people asked: “How do you have sex in that loft?” She always replied, “Very carefully.” Although in truth, she still didn’t have any idea.

  “Thanks for everything, Margie,” Summer said as she and Margie parted ways. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”

  “Ah, now,” Margie shooed away the compliment. “We’re all in this together.”

  Summer smiled. She liked the idea of being part of the nomadic tribe she’d stumbled upon.

  “Who knows,” Margie said, eyeing the caboose. “Maybe I’ll get Alf to look at a tiny house one of these days. They’re sure cute.”

  Summer hugged Margie and waved as the older woman disappeared into the evening mist. As she climbed onto her air mattress at night, and her eyes adjusted to the darkened loft, Shortie snuggled up at the bottom of the air mattress, Summer realized she was thinking more and more about how it was going to be to actually live in such a tight space. She was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t shut off. She was having too many thoughts, too quickly.

  Summer fired up her iPad and turned to the page she’d stopped reading on her latest romance novel. The steamy scene did nothing to quiet her mind. She shut down the iPad and closed her eyes. Thoughts of making love in the loft drifted into her twilight sleep. Keefe wandered into her mind, but she replaced him with Bale immediately. She smiled. If anyone would know how to make love in a tiny house, it would be Bale.

  There was no time to think about anything during the day. RVers and truckers tended to get up with first light. Against her will, she and Shortie were usually on the road by dawn.

  Stopping at thrift stores proved to be challenging. Every morning she would “yelp” the local thrift stores, then set her GPS for anything that looked promising. Parking continued to be an issue. There were several stores she drove by, slowing down to look in the window, but knowing she’d never find a place to put the tiny house while she shopped.

  Even with the hands-free option, Summer never went near her phone while she was driving. At every rest stop, she’d greedily grab her phone, dreading a call from Queenie. Hoping for a text from Bale. Neither came.

  There were a few exceptions, and she made the most of them. In a tiny town in South Dakota, Summer found a gem of a vintage store with racks and racks of thick sweaters. Of course, a state in the Salt Belt—so named because they were traditionally so cold in winter large quantities of salt were applied to roads to control snow and ice—would have amazing sweaters!

  By the time she was closing in on Seattle, twenty minutes south of Cat’s Paw, Summer had spent six days on the road. If nothing else, she was now an expert in parking at Wal-Mart parking lots. She’d heard stories that RV parks and campgrounds weren’t hospitable to tiny houses. But save for her initial jarring experience, she hadn’t really found that to be the case. While she knew she had to find private campgrounds and RV parks, since federal and state regulations haven’t caught up with the tiny trend, she just felt too inexperienced every time she arrived at a campground or RV park. Even after a few days driving under her belt, when it came time to stop, there always se
emed to be an obstacle. She’d work up her nerve to approach her painstakingly chosen spot for the night, only to find either a non-navigable road for a novice, or a crowd of onlookers excited to check out her tiny house. So, Wal-Mart it was.

  The trip went by in the blink of an eye. Summer had nothing to show for her travels but an armload of sweaters of questionable quality.

  As Cat’s Paw’s Main Street came into view, Summer’s heart skipped a beat. Her parents had told her the town had spruced itself up over the years, rising from the ashes of being a railway town, then a lumber town, but she hadn’t seen it for herself. She knew Grandpa Zach and Queenie spent years trying to outrun the destruction of the historic buildings on Main Street. They finally won. Eight years ago, Cat’s Paw was awarded placement not only on the State Historic Register but also on the National Historic Register. While Grandpa and Queenie did most of the heavy lifting, it looked as if the town took the honors seriously. Every business on Main Street seemed determined to preserve its historic charm.

  She sat at the intersection of the two main streets, taking it all in. She stared at the bakery smack in the middle of the newly restored downtown. When she last saw it, the building was dull green painted over bricks…or maybe a dull grey painted over bricks. Summer couldn’t remember which. She only remembered that it was dull. Now it, along with the other stores, had been sandblasted. The entire street was varying shades of dark red to light pink, with wood detailing in tasteful shades of maroon, green and beige. The store name, Dough Z Dough, remained the only cheesy note on the block.

  She suddenly snapped out of her contemplation as Keefe suddenly appeared in the doorway of the bakery, wearing a long white apron over his jeans and light blue shirt. He looked as good as the town.

  Damn it.

  Her mouth went dry as she watched him. He was standing in the same spot as when he said goodbye ten years ago. She could still envision the day. The wind was insane that day. She stood in front of the bakery, holding her college acceptance letter. She had to hold onto it with both hands, to keep it from blowing away. While there must have been other people on the street, she only remembered him, standing there, reading over her letter.